A Mercenary's Diary
by iscariot
Summary: Jayne has a diary... the gods will get me for this
1. Chapter 1

_Have started writing again – yes, (for those who care) a new chapter of A Man of Misunderstandings is en route…I have to do something at work._

_I am not entirely sure what shape this thing is going to take – certainly the Jayne of this fic is not the Jayne of A.M.O.M – I think…yet…we'll see, certainly, the cultural and literary allusions will get thrown around at bit; but I guess that's me and not Jayne…_

_What I am certain of it that this will be 500 word chapters – they are, after all diary entries. I will note that there will be swearing, crass analogy and some pretty explicit mental pictures for you to draw – Jayne is, after all, a man of the 'verse and his diary doesn't come with a public filter._

_So, of you're easily offended, you might want to give it a miss._

_Thanks – in anticipation – to al who review (that's a hint). Also, if people have some suggestions/ ideas as to possible topics for Jayne's diary I am more than interested to listen (no stupid romance-y stuff though, this isn't Mills and Boon: for all that I love a good Rayne fic)._

_Have started tidying things up a little bit - the poor proof-reading annoyed me.  
_

* * *

Is there some part of *not* tempting fate that bloody Mal doesn't understand?

You would think that someone, who is constantly hit by Companion lightning every time he asks _'what he's done this time?'_ would get the idea that fate doesn't like stupid questions; in fact, I'm pretty sure that Atropos is sitting in her rocking chair (somewhere on a cloud) just waiting to cut Reynolds' thread – or at least kink it a bit.

Case in point…

"We haven't been bothered by Reavers lately…"

Thank Iesu that a bloody behemoth of an Alliance cruiser hove into view as the pair of Reaver ships, that hadn't been there a second ago (until Mal opened his trap, that is), barrelled over the top of a perfectly innocent looking moon.

"This isn't Rea…"

I think the idiot was about to state something about it not being Reaver space, but fortunately, Zoe, in a quick piece of thinking, threw him off the gangway into the cargo bay and he died horribly before he could complete the sentence…

OK. I'm lying. She kicked him in the jewels… but a man can dream, can't he?

Side Note: Purple is not Mal's colour: not for his face anyway.

Got to head back to Persephone, the ship that is, not me in person; apparently Badger has a job for us. Unfortunately, we're not flush enough with the readies to tell him where to stick his 'job', which we'd all like to do. Even the Shepherd was heard to describe the despicable little shit in terms that a man of the cloth shouldn't be using. Not that I disagree with him, mind; Badger is the type of man that any self-respecting dung-beetle would sniff at rolling into a ball and laying their eggs on.

Asked Mal what the job was and, as usual, he was completely non-forthcoming: I think he thinks it's all captain-y not to tell the hired help anything, although if tries taking that attitude with Zoë too often he's gonna get shot for his trouble. Zoë might be respectful and all when the time and place demands it but when Mal's being a prick she's the first one in line to tell him to pull his head out of his proverbial; albeit with a 'Sir' attached sweetly to the end of the sentence…

…and, dear god, I have to stay the hell away from Kaylee, what sort of a word is Captain-y? You think with all time she spends in the doctors quarters that she'd have better things to do with her mouth than mangle the English language… Although it's possible that the doctor's too damn prissy for a decent sexin'; reckon' the doc's the only man in the verse to make the missionary position a physiological impossibility. I wonder if there is anything in the _Karma_ Sutra called 'The Plank'?

Anyway, this job, Badger wants doing, involves 'tranportifyin some merchandise'. If this comes out bent I'll transportify the little shit myself, captain-y or no captain-y command…


	2. Part2

'Transportifying' my arse…

'Merchandise' also my arse…

…The technical term for this shit is drug running; or if would be if we were actually 'transportifying the merchandise' for as soon as Mal figured out what Badger was trying to pull he told him where to shove his 'merchandise'.

Mal might have a stubborn streak a mile wide, and a stupid streak that comfortably challenges it for breadth, but his honourable streak has them both beat and he doesn't have, or want, nothin' to do with drugs.

It's probably the one thing the entire crew agrees upon.

Of course, Badger comes over all aggro and threatened to ruin Mal and 'all who sailed with him'. Don't ask me where he gets this shit, probably the same deep, dark abscess he dug his accent up from.

Abscess? Abyss? …Abscess?…Abyss?

I know that one's a festering pustule and the other is a deep, dark hole but I can't remember which. On consideration, both are appropriate so I guess I'll make do.

Anyway, Mal smiled politely and had River threaten to pull Badger's intestines out through his ears. I reckon' she was going to do her whole _'I can kill you with my brain'_ schtick, except that it's not particularly effective if you don't know her; so, someone obviously had a chat with her about it, probably Zoë.

It certainly wasn't her idiot brother who still appears to be of the opinion that his sister is a delicate flower who'll shatter in the slightest breeze. . .

Just as well he was too busy banging Kaylee like a drum the other evening to pay any attention to the outside world 'cos River came out drinking with us. For someone so small she drinks more than a Roman legion; she also swears like a pirate and, according to her, flies like a butterfly and stings like a bee - whatever that means.

So… threats of violence.

Badger did a passing impression of completely unimpressed when River, who probably weighs as much as an underfed trout, threatened to rearrange his innards. The little crapper was also most uncomplimentary towards Mal and started to provide commentary about how he was getting a woman to fight his battles for him…

… Or he was until he caught the look on Zoë's face and wisely decided to shut up.

Not even that frothing psychopath, Niska is crazy enough to cross Zoë. Last time he threatened Mal, he sent Zoë a bunch of roses and a note stating how deeply apologetic he was for inadvertently hurting her beloved husband, in their last interaction; and that he would be most eager to provide a measure of financial recompense for her pain.

I'm quotin' this shit, by the way. Ain't no way I'm havin' a piece of that flowery garbage, not even to get into a high-priced whore's panties. Then again, I'll think on it, as it might be useful… it's all about priorities.

Anyway, Zoë didn't have to move. I think River moved – well, her leg that is - about eight inches, and Badger, well he dropped about three foot; reckon he'll be searching for his balls for the next week - somewhere in the vicinity of the back of his throat, I imagine.

Almost felt sorry for him. Almost, but not quite.


	3. Part3

_I hope someone, somewhere is reading this…_

* * *

Today, we got boarded by the Alliance.

River was muttering something about megalomaniacal proctologists crawling up somebody's butt with a microscope, but I kind of lost her after the third or fourth word; but I figured she wasn't too impressed with the state of affairs…

…Not that she has to hide anymore.

…And not that it didn't stop the Alliance Officer, who'd obviously attended the Simon Tam school of moral rectitude (I can use rectitude – the Shepherd was giving Mal another lecture on that special place - and he was using it as punctuation. So, when no one was looking, I asked him what it meant), give River an exceptionally long, hard - and one might say, lingering - look.

Of course, River couldn't leave it alone and spent the entire visit following Mr Alliance around threatening to kill him with her mind. I'm not too sure what Mr Alliance's preferred response was as Zoë was following River around – god alone knows someone has to – and was clearly indicating that, if Mr Alliance tried to respond to River's incredibly unsubtle intimations, it wouldn't be River's mind he'd have to worry about.

Mr Alliance had obviously learnt to leave well enough alone; either that or he'd heard about Zoë.

Anyway, Mr Alliance was visitin' due to an anonymous tipoff, the regional HQ had received, about a Firefly-class vessel smuggling drugs in the area.

Mal wasn't impressed.

Mal said of whole heap of extremely unflattering things about Badger's ostensible parentage, and probable sexual practices, before informing Mr Alliance that he was more than welcome – this bit said through clenched teeth – to search his boat, to see if he was carrying any merchandise of the type described.

Mr Alliance graciously declined the captain's offer, stating that Captain Reynolds was clearly a man of impeccable character and would, again, clearly, never stoop to pursuing such an illegal course of action as to actually traffic in illegal pharmaceutical merchandise.

Mal thanked Mr Alliance for his kind words and politely asked if he was able to provide any further assistance.

I was startin' to get a mite confused with all this politeness until I saw what the Captain, and Mr Alliance, had been able to see that I had not; a Companion heading, under full sail, in their direction – and Inara was all done up in her finest whore-wear and when she's fully constructed herself like that she' scarier than a whole fuckin' flotilla of Reavers.

Not to overstate matters, but Mal isn't gonna piss Inara off, cos' then he isn't going to get any.

Mr Alliance isn't going to piss off the Companion Guild because then he'd get his, sideways - with a coracle - from the Pointy-Headed Bosses at Alliance Command; because if they piss the guild off then they're not gonna get any.

Let's face it, sex makes the 'verse go round, and anyone who disagrees is in denial, or a professional virgin (or a doctor on board a Firefly).

So, both Mal, and Mr Alliance, swallowed their basic impulse to set the other on fire, and played nice.

It was pretty disappointing.


	4. Part4

There is a creature on the ship.

I think it came in on the last planet we visited…

…Maybe.

It's equally likely that it spontaneously generated from the last batch of protein-substitute as, I'm pretty certain that, on occasion, I've detected a rudimentary intelligence glaring up at me from my plate at mealtimes.

Actually, this gives me the opportunity to practice my word for the week; it's another Shepherd word although it is equally applicable to the potential spawning of a life-form from our food. This week's word is parthenogenesis, which means: asexual reproduction. I have to admit that, in the grand scheme of things, I would have expected the asexual generation of a life-form on the ship to come from the continual meeting of Simon's head with Simon's arse and not our dinner; but who am I to question the fundaments of biology?

I just want to note that I'm not learning new words to 'better myself' – I like the original just fine; what I do enjoy, is the look of confusion, and fear, on the crew's [and others'] faces when I break out with the smart-words. I think it undermines their view of an ordered verse.

So, parthenogenesis, or invasion by unknown creature?

I tend to favour the notion of spontaneous generation, as the last planet we visited – on a real, paying, honest-to-god job, was a satellite-based, hospital planet, where even the fake grass had been sterilised to within an inch of its artificial life. I guess it's possible that a real, live, non-sterilised life-form was attempting to escape its antiseptic prison (as it was from that point forward that the signs of incursion began to appear), but that only leaves the question of how it got there in the first place, as the possibility that it spontaneously generated in such an antiseptic setting is even LESS likely than the idea that something spontaneously generated from our food.

Not. My. Problem.

What *is* my problem are the desiccated bodies of the unfortunate rodents that are routinely appearing about the ship. (I learnt what desiccated meant when Simon threw his toys when I asked his lunatic sister if she felt like throwing knives in the hold – we have an ongoing competition with various targets set up: we get points for accuracy and difficulty. Doctor Dipshit started ranting about my base nature, and desiccated intellect, and how dare I talk to his sister... yadda yadda yadda…).

I don't mind if the creature leaves the results of its depredations in everyone else's stuff. In fact the idea of Inara's finest whore-wear decorated with the latest range of rodent guts is pretty appealing; at least in terms of the level of disgust it would generate.

Better yet, Inara would blame Mal.

By the way: yes, we have rats, you can't keep the little buggers out; I think they have super powers. We also have cockroaches, which appear to have retained the tenacity and violent objection to death, dismemberment and pesticides that characterised their existence on the Earth that was: I kind of like them – if only because they make the doctor squeal.

The final straw, however, was when the little – assuming it's little – bastard (assuming its parents weren't formally introduced – likely, in the case of spontaneously generating protein creatures) left a disembowelled rat in my gun case.

Bastard.


	5. Part5

My mother sent me more socks. Purple, with yellow spots.

I don't understand.

Does she think I am some sort of wizard; or some sort of sly, core fashion-victim with a funny accent? Knowing my mother, either option is a possibility. I'm not entirely sure what she actually thinks I am doing out here, paying attention to things was never a strong point with my mother. Mind you, with eight kids, it was enough that she could remember our names; even then she was a bit distracted, how do you think I ended up with Jayne?

Actually, when you think about it, Jayne was a close call; she wanted to call me Sue. Fortunately, my father talked her out of it.

Can you imagine, a boy named Sue?

I don't hear from my father so much, usually he adds a note at the bottom of my mother's letters; probably after she thinks she's posted it. My father's notes consist of an advisory to not worry, that mother is fine and I can disregard her latest bizarre request: – sending money isn't too difficult, asking me to pick up couple of gallons of milk on my way home not so much.

The creature continues to roam the ship, despite the best efforts of everyone to catch it; even River. Apparently, she can't even find it with her mind, let alone kill it; and she has tried. Last time she, when her efforts met with failure, wandered off muttering about 'purple and disappearing smiles' – I knew those mushrooms that had been included with our latest load of supplies were off; maybe it was somebody's idea of a joke.

But no, don't listen to mercenary. Those mushrooms look funny, I said. But no, don't listen to the mercenary. I grew up on an agricultural world on the rim. But no, don't listen to the mercenary. I used to collect mushrooms with my younger sister. But no, don't listen to the mercenary. We learnt to AVOID THE MUSHROOMS THAT MADE THE GOATS THINK THEY COULD FLY. But no, don't listen to the mercenary.

I have to admit, however, that watching Zoë trying to catch butterflies in the hold was pretty funny.

Simon was still a twat.

We just got a wave from cow-guy; wants us to do another job for him. Better still, this time, the job won't crap all over the hold.

You have no idea how glad I was for the existence of high-pressure hoses after we dropped the cattle off. Truth be told, after the first few days I was all in favour of dropping them off from a height of several kilometres or, at the least, converting them into a gourmet selection of steak and roasts.

Apparently that would be bad for business.

Frankly, I'll put the retention of my sense of smell over business any day of the week but, as Wash noted – the little man has his uses and when he's right, he's right – can't rightly use your sense of smell when you're dead from not paying off the fuel bill and you're drifting in space.

Used my cut of that job to by me a steak you had to get a ladder to see over.

Revenge is a dish best served medium rare with a nice red wine sauce.


	6. Part6

_Decided to continue this for a bit – my own PC has died with all the work for the next chapter of Man of Misunderstandings on it. Oh well. This chapter rated for nasty evil bad words and even nastier inferences...tee hee._

* * *

I hate families.

They come all wrapped up with a heap of expectations that bear only the very smallest resemblance to something that may – or may not – be reality.

Other people's families are even worse. Not only do you have to be polite - or Captain Ahab of the tight pants decides you've turned into a white fuckin' whale (and we all know that white whales get stuck in the airlock for the duration [again]) – but you also have to play nice an' all that; which means you can't 'accidentally' push them of a cliff like you would if it were a real live family member of your'n.

...Oh alright, it wasn't a cliff...

...just a real steep bank...

...I couldn't find a cliff.

Pa always said that as long as you don't shoot family pretty much anything else is fair game. Pa came to regret that statement as Ma sat him down for a long talk about 'setting a good example' and when Ma decided to sit you down for a talk your fate was pretty much sealed. Anyway, after Ma's little chat, Pa amended his list to: known weapons, unknown weapons, things that aren't weapons but can be improvised as such, parts of things that aren't weapons... (That last one was added on after Ma caught me taking to my brother with a frozen leg of deer from the ice box).

Anyway, we have had the joy, this past week, of hosting the parents of Doctor Prissy and Sister Nutjob. I think the whole fuckin' crew took it in turns to come tell me what I could and couldn't say/do/wear. River kindly threatened to kill me with her brain and the Shepherd kindly took time out from nourishing Mal's guilt complex to give me my own personal lecture about the 'special hell' – which I understand, from the way the mad old buzzard keeps adding to its list of criteria, won't be suffering from a population shortage.

Things could have been worse.

They sure could have been a hell of a lot better although that was mainly due to Inara playing referee between Tam-the-Elder's continual (and ongoing) support and apologetics for the Alliance (blessed be their name) and Mal and his continual need to teach Alliance supporters the error of their ways. Loudly.

The Missus wasn't so bad, sure, she looked like a stuck-up matron of the highest order but she could suck an orange though an exhaust fitting and keep on going.

I don't mind being used. I especially didn't mind being used by the Missus Tam. That's not only cos of the sexin' mind, although that's a large part of it, the real pleasure is derived (and to be enjoyed), at a future date of my choosin', from the Doc coming over all lordly and civilised at me and my being able to tell him that I may, indeed, be what he says, but that didn't stop his mother from enjoying my company and that, for his edification, she fucks like an angry rattlesnake.

Then again, River's been lookin' at me kinda funny since they left; so maybe we'll wait and see – suicidal I'm not.


	7. Chapter 7

_I got bored, so here's another chapter; am starting to think I need help._

_Thanks to all who reviewed last chapter_

* * *

We're in port. Thank Iesu.

Bloody River's been trying to crawl around inside my head with all the subtlety of a union picket. I knew she knew something was up when her parents were around; which sounds infinitely better than: she knew something was up one of her parents while they were around.

I know I need a break when I think I need to start censoring my mind in my own diary; then again, on previous ships I've worked, it was a fair bet that the majority of the crew couldn't read and those that could needed illustrations to provide some measure of direction.

Probably just as well that literacy isn't a prerequisite in the mercenary profession or we'd all be standing around waiting to get shot by some idiot who was struggling his [or her] way through a set of instructions be it ever so simple as 'point and shoot'; although I was reading a book about computer systems of the past and, apparently, something called 'point and click' didn't work, as advertised, either.

So, River's been trying to crawl around inside my head necessitating an escape, if only for a while. Just as well because, as I was debarking, Inara had a bunch of visitors from the local whore superiority centre. Bloody Companions, they might be trained to within an inch of their lives but they still walk, talk and fuck like a remote-controlled mule. For all the artistry in the world and accompanying idiot-arse tea ceremonies they're still all about Tab A into Slot B; faking it is faking it, even when you're not.

Anyway, I have better things to do than pretend my IQ is 100 points lower than it actually is just to fulfil their need to wallow in their ostensible cultural superiority, as I said, faking it is still faking it and faking it isn't just about sex.

So, on making good my escape I headed for the local bookstore. I have to do something while we're floating around in the black waiting for bloody Mal to make up his alleged mind on whom we're going to piss off next. Just for once, I'd like to see him make a choice of work based on a rational business decision and not determined by how much it will piss off the Alliance ... or get Inara all hot ... or fulfil his 'big damn hero' itch... or not leave the rest of us standing round like tailor shop dummies while he delivers a soliloquy on his latest moral imperative for being who he is and doing what he does.

Fuck me; I'd work for the bloody reavers if they gave me a signed contract that stated that they weren't going to deliver a damn speech before every mission.

Got to the store and headed for the hideously overpriced 'real book' section, that is, books made with paper and not a bunch of mildly inconvenienced electrons – there's something about a real book, made with paper, with pages that you can turn, that is infinitely appealing, for a start they make a distinctly satisfying thud when thrown at the person who's been tailing you with all the finesse of an epileptic traffic jam.


	8. Chapter 8

Finally, I am back writing. I targeted this fic as the chapters are short and it will give me a chance to learn how to use words again.

This chapter has a few nice bits, but does flow super smoothly – a distinct lack of practise. However, now that I have an actual PC again, this will, hopefully, improve.

I do plan to start work on the next chapter of A Man of Misunderstandings my Firefly [cough] epic… if anyone cares (woe ... oh woe ...)

Reviews gratefully appreciated.

* * *

Zoe got a Christmas card from Niska. She's somewhat disturbed; not, admittedly, as disturbed as Wash, but disturbed nevertheless. I'd be disturbed. Of course, being disturbed when a psychopath sends you greetings is probably a wise course of action followed by the even wiser action of running away.

I'd even go so far as to enact the hiding bit of the old Irish curse, from Earth that Was, which involved the Lord God being unable to find you with a radio telescope; to my way of thinking, if the Guy on the Cloud can't find you, then I reckon you'd be fairly safe from most psychopaths.

That being said, I don't think Zoe knows how to run away.

Possibly, she caught the affliction from Mal – although I am not sure if you can actually catch dumb. Possibly, I'm being unfair to the captain and his inability to run away from things has nothing to do with having 'The Dumb' and everything to do with not being able to run in tight trousers.

I like Christmas. It gives me the opportunity to distribute lumps of coal to my nearest and dearest. This declaration did precipitate a lecture from the Shepherd on the benefits on altruism and goodwill to all men.

I asked him if 'goodwill to all men' included Niska …

…and Reavers …

Apparently, there is a place in that special hell of his for smart-arse mercenaries; right alongside people who take advantage of innocent girls and reckless cinema-talkers.

Special Hell is going to run out of room if he isn't careful more careful with his various maledictions.

…And speaking of running out of room: The creature that lurks in bowels of the ship has started stacking its kills; clearly there's no longer any inconvenient places left to mount the various displays of rodent intestines that we had come to know and love. The one place the cunning little bastard hadn't managed to penetrate was the sick bay but the Doc, in a remarkable display of mysophobic paranoia, has it locked up tighter than a professional virgin's chastity belt – even if, in doing so, it meant that Simon had to learn a useful skill: he taught himself how to weld.

The problem with learning useful skills, however, - especially in the black - is that you are expected to use them for the greater good, and listening to Simon whine like a little girl every time he gets his nails dirty is making me reconsider whether his actually being useful (over-and-above his ability to sew in a straight line) is worth the ongoing – and high-pitched – assault on my hearing.

At least we can be certain the ship doesn't have any bats; Simon's whining would have knocked them out of the sky and the floor of the loading bay would have been littered with bats clutching their little furry heads in agony.

Actually, no. The floor of the landing bay would have been littered with their neatly stacked corpses;


	9. Chapter 9

_Maybe this getting back into writing isn't so bad after all; this chapter is a distinct improvement on the previous effort. I think one more of these and I'll be ready to start stepping up my game to Man of Misunderstandings, which, on consideration, I should probably re-read in order to actually continue with the vague mass that is allegedly the plot._

_Please read and review … or something …_

* * *

I just received, yet another, lecture from Inara; for a woman of, supposed, mystery and allure, she is remarkably predictable; predictable, that is, in the same way that the consequences of building your house in an avalanche zone are predictable.

So, there I was, quietly contemplating the exercise in self-abuse that was trying to pass itself off as my lunch when Inara comes billowing into the galley; I use billowing in the sense that she resembled nothing so much as a sailing-ship from-Earth-that Was (and when she's wearing the diaphanous wonder that is her official whore-wear her resemblance to a ship under sail is frightening; not as frightening, however, as the resemblance of her face - in full make up – to a ship's prow: but that's another story).

Anyway: lunch … billowing and … abuse.

Apparently, when Inara was entertaining a fellow member of the Companion's Guild or, as I like to call them, The Whore Corps, and I didn't pay her visitor enough respect, which I can only interpret to mean that I didn't drool enough in her general direction – Pavlov's Mercenary anyone? - when she was whisked past us lesser mortals in a heavily perfumed cloud.

Maybe I didn't look servile enough?

According to Doctor Prissy Britches I can barely pass for human so mayhap I need to work on that first.

Of course, Simon acted with all due appropriate comportment, but as he has to ask for permission before he gets an erection, I don't think I need to rely on him as a reference point for normal human behaviour.

…Man's more constipated than a fibre shortage at colonic convention, where, I'm told, they really pack them in...

… Okay, I'm sorry for that.

Changing subject; we've just arrived back on Persephone, apparently Badger has a job for us; something to do with the upcoming elections. Frankly, I had my fill of shit in the cargo bay when we had those cows on board.

Admittedly, I can't confirm that we're actually transporting politicians.

I'm having all sorts of trouble reckonin' as to why Mal would be willing to transport politicians and, further, why he'd be willing to transport politicians Badger's supplying; that's analogous to buying chickens from the local fox. I know politicians are bent, by definition alone, but Badger-type politicians must be more bent that the organising committee of the local sly convention.

Now, don't be misunderstanding me and go thinking I got somethin' against sly-folk, cos I ain't; but I refuse to let a perfectly good stereotype got to waste if'n I'm makin' a point.

Dammit, you got me all upset and now I'm speaking like some under-educated hillbilly; which, apparently, when I'm failing at being a member of the human species, is what I am. Frankly, morons like Doctor Crippen can think what they like, and I use the term 'think' advisedly, but I'll be buggered if I'm going to end up sounding like a retard in my own diary.

So there.


	10. Chapter 10

_I received a negative review. What annoyed me was not that the review was negative, but that they didn't have the courtesy to sign in, thereby not allowing me to reply and ask questions. Also, their commentary simply stated that the fic was 'bad, in a bad way', which tells me nothing useful. Well, it tells me they thought it was bad_

_Taste, is of course personal, but I like to pick people's brains._

_Let's note that this fic is me playing around; and is pretty silly. Also it is pretty shoddy in terms of construction and the paying of attention to basic mechanics; normally, I am fairly rigorous with such – that being said, having gone back to re-read things, some of this is subject to SUCH rudimentary mistakes, that I WILL go back and tidy a few things up. _

_That being said, do I need to take things a little more seriously? Please, give me your thoughts._

_I sincerely appreciate your reviews._

* * *

I reckon the past week was Badger's idea of a joke, or his reptilian brain has evolved to a level where some measure of innate sentience is discernable and saddling us with politicians represented some arcane form of retribution.

It's certainly been interesting.

I have to admit, I derived a certain amount of amused pleasure from the morality crusader, representing some extreme religious sect, who spent a significant portion of her time aboard upbraiding Inara for being a 'whore' and a 'fallen woman'.

For some reason, Companions seem to lose their, carefully-studied, composure when responding through clenched teeth; who would have thought? I must admit, I didn't help matters by making sure to place myself in Inara's line-of-sight whenever said crusader appeared on the horizon. It was worth the price of admission as Inara desperately tried not to implode as she struggled between the reflexive urge to berate (and probably strangle) the 'idiot' in front of her and maintain a degree of decorum she constantly proclaims to be far beyond the likes of one such as I.

This is, of course, bollocks. Inara swears like a marine with a three-day leave pass; in multiple languages. Usually at the captain when he's done something to cross her - like using the wrong spoon to stir his tea. Someone also needs to mention to her that her command of multiple languages would be less apparent if she soundproofed her shuttle…

… Especially when she has visitors …

…Female visitors …

…Of the political persuasion…

… I guess whore training is good for something after all.

Of course, we had more than one politician 'staying' with us.

The official representative of the Alliance Government, with whom Badger had gifted us, had a particularly unpleasant week. If it wasn't having to deal with the wisp of insanity following him around and threatening to kill him with her (alleged) mind, he had to listen to Mal, clearly having donned his tightest pants, hold forth on why The Alliance was clearly in league with THE DEVIL! (Mal was shouting at this point). I think the tight pants cut off blood flow to both his brains. Admittedly, it probably didn't help that the politico called Mal 'rebel scum' – I do hope he enjoyed his accommodation in the airlock; it has a wonderful view of ... space.

Of us all, however, I think the 'most' offended was the Shepherd; as he constantly reminds us, _ad nauseum, '_ He wasn't always a Shepherd'. What he was, unfortunately, is never disclosed, leaving me to conclude that what the Shepherd most likely was, was delusional or, at the least, full of shit. I mean, seriously, enough with the cloak and dagger theatrics, it's not like you're the oooonnlllyyy person in the fuckin' 'verse with a checkered past and a morally ambiguous history – dude, seriously… welcome to Serenity?

Anyway, the Shepherd spent the entire visit wandering the ship with a permanently affronted expression on his face, constantly muttering about how we'd been invaded by the Flat Earth Society.

At least he didn't mention anything about elephants riding around on the backs of giant space-faring turtles.


End file.
